


Narcissus

by missmariie



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 13:53:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1650974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmariie/pseuds/missmariie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am a vain creature. Many of you may be, to some degree aware of this, having read my dear companion’s accounts of me in the Strand and no doubt detected therein, a little gentle teasing Watson loves to slip in on the subject. Believe me, however, when I say you have no idea of quite how vain I can be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Narcissus

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this up on lj a while ago, but I thought I'd move it across to here. It's unbeta'd, and I'm obviously not Doyle himself. Happy reading!

I am a vain creature. Many of you may be, to some degree aware of this, having read my dear companion’s accounts of me in the Strand and no doubt detected therein, a little gentle teasing Watson loves to slip in on the subject. Believe me, however, when I say you have no idea of quite how vain I can be.  
Indeed, if there were a mirror that, instead of allowing one to look upon their own face, made it possible to engage oneself in conversation, I might die as Narcissus; bent over my own image, having forgotten the rest of world.

 

The great pity of all this is the part my vanity played in the inception of my regard for my Boswell. I wish, with all of the sincerity I possess, that I could tell you of my heart stirring so ferociously upon our first meeting that I could feel its echo in my ears, or that it took me mere days to recognise and catalogue all that is exceptional about him; but this was not the case. Watson is the finest example of an English gentleman that I have had the pleasure of meeting, but that is not to say that he is especially striking.  
The truth is that I barely saw Watson when Stanford introduced us, as I was utterly sidelined by my own brilliance in having made progress in my haemoglobin experiment, and he served little purpose to me other than being an audience to my gloating. Beside the fact of my taking rooms with him, I’d forgotten him entirely by the time he’d left my sight.

 

Indeed, I did not notice Watson’s intrinsic value for quite some time; more than a year if I recall correctly. I began inviting him out as an assistant on the better mysteries I was offered; only because he was the most unabashed audience I’d ever encountered. Any affection I had for him was simply an extension of my regard for myself.  
It was this arrogance that paved the way for more earnest regard; my perception of him became irretrievably attached to my identity, until I loved him in a possessive capacity, if an insincere one. Somehow, despite my terrible self-absorption, my regard for the doctor – my doctor – became more complex. His loyalty and respect for me made me preen for him, and I relished in having an audience for my brilliance. Gradually, his kindness, patience and quiet intelligence turned my love of his attention into a love of the man himself. This is not a reflection of any existential changes on my part, but rather a consequence of Watson’s impossibly good nature. No man can pay him any attention without being swept off their feet by his sweetness; and even as irredeemably selfish as I am, I could not fail to fall hopelessly in love.

Over the space of a year, I went from disguising a blush of pride whenever I made him to smile, to feeling a blossom of warmth in my chest at every quirk of his lip, regardless of the cause. I have the fortune of being an unstoppable force, and although I am sadly lacking in virtue, I have my own charms, so it was not difficult to win him once I realised the depth of my desire. The ability to read the man like a book also helped, and I won my prize still too young to fully appreciate his value. It would be many years before I realised myself humbled by the strength of his presence.

 

Watson will never know the whole story of my affections. Although I am sure the sordid tale of my arrogance would never be enough for him to leave me, it would pain me to see him hurt. All that remains to be said is that, despite being as vain as I ever was, I now know my Boswell to be the best and wisest man I have ever met, including myself, and that is a tall order indeed.  
It is probably fortunate for Watson that our affair is quite illegal, as if it were not; I would parade him about like the mother of a young prodigy. After all, how could a man such as myself resist the temptation to flaunt their connection to the best man in England?


End file.
